


Beginning To End

by FinnScathach



Category: Ballad - Maggie Stiefvater, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinnScathach/pseuds/FinnScathach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson thought that Sherlock Holmes was the oddest man he had ever met, but after a day in which he encounters the daoine sidhe for the first time, he realises that perhaps there is something going on that's bigger than his flatshare. Because Sherlock Holmes is a leanán sidhe, pulled by the cloverhand -- John. When the death of Sherlock's pupil, Moriarty, coincides with the end of his sixteen years, he has to make a choice. He jumps, or he burns. Either way, only John can save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginning To End

**Author's Note:**

> This was prompted by a joke Sherlock theory relating to the leanán sidhe. One of my Tumblr followers wanted an AU. So, I made one. It's my first attempt at Sherlock fic, therefore I am somewhat concerned that John's 'voice' is completely off -- all comments and suggestions etc are gratefully received.

For perhaps as much as a day, Sherlock Holmes—with his all-seeing gaze and unconventional behaviour—was the oddest person I had met. And that was a fair enough analysis. We met, he deduced everything about me from my phone, and we agreed to look at a flat. If it weren’t for the fact I needed the flatshare, given my financial situation, I would have walked away there and then, disconcerted by the suggestion that he would be able to tell everything I had been doing from things I couldn’t hide.

Fairly soon, however, it came to my attention that perhaps Sherlock wasn’t too bad after all.

The flat was in the centre of London, an advantage if I actually managed to find some work any time soon, although with my leg as dodgy as it was, it wasn’t looking too likely. My army pension might keep me going for a while, but disability allowance could be a possibility. I’d have to look into it. Civilian life was more complicated than I’d ever given it credit for being.

Our landlady, when she opened the door, was wearing a four-leaf clover on a chain around her neck. She squinted at my companion, smiled at me, and touched the clover as though for luck before inviting us in. “Is this…?” she said, an open question, but Sherlock shook his head in what I would soon learn was a typically brusque manner. Baffled, I decided to ignore the whole thing and introduce myself.

“John Watson.”

“Mrs Hudson will be our landlady,” Sherlock informed me. “She and I knew each other in the past.”

I looked at her, but her face gave nothing away. “Well, I suppose if he’s not … I mean, you’ll be wanting the room upstairs, will you?”

Stairs. That didn’t bode well for my leg, but I didn’t like to bring that up with Sherlock standing there, so I just nodded mutely and wondered who it was that Mrs Hudson was expecting me to be.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then our landlady left without further ado, glancing back at Sherlock as though something was still bothering her, but she was too polite to say anything. I looked at the man who was most probably my new flatmate. “So, this is the place?”

“It is. If you approve.”

He had an odd way of speaking. Old fashioned. Still, he wasn’t exactly a normal guy, from what I’d seen; maybe he’d lighten up when we knew each other a little better. I walked around the flat, ignoring the musty smell that seemed to be coming from the huge number of books. There was a violin in the corner.

“Yours?” I asked. He hadn’t mentioned that.

“A friend’s. He is trying to teach me, but I fear it is going badly. Do you play at all?”

I’d learned the clarinet at school but if I’d ever had natural talent it had vanished into the mud I crawled through in stage one army training. “No.”

“Maybe he could teach you too.” Sherlock smiled suddenly, an expression that looked out of place on his stern face, and gestured to the room. “If you’ve got books, I can move some of these. There’s probably enough shelf space for us both.”

I hadn’t missed the slight anxiety in his voice there. “I’ve got about three,” I said. “A road map, The Hobbit, and a Gideon Bible.”

“You must like the Hobbit.”

“It was given to me by a friend.” I hadn’t the heart to tell them that fantasy wasn’t my thing.

Most people would have laughed to cover the awkward pause, but Sherlock just looked at me for a minute, and then gestured to the kitchen. “That’s the kitchen,” he said.

“No shit, Sherlock.” I’d been waiting my whole life for a genuine opportunity to say that. As I glanced around, I realised that neither the freezer or the oven were plugged in. The fridge, however, was. “You know, you need the electricity turned on to cook?”

“I—I got a takeaway. I’m too lazy to cook.”

I looked in the freezer. It was completely empty. In fact, I was pretty sure it had never been used. The fridge was a different story. I opened the vegetable tray to find a plastic bag, sealed with a tag. When I lifted it out, I could just about make out what looked like …

“Thumbs?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I do experiments sometimes, in the kitchen. If you have a problem with that, perhaps we shouldn’t be flatmates.”

To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted a flatmate who apparently didn’t eat but kept body parts in the fridge, but it wasn’t like I had a lot of choice. If there were people queuing up to share with me, I wasn’t aware of it.

“Thumbs. Right. Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days at a time. Sometimes I won’t shut up. I take violin lessons to help me think. My waking hours are somewhat unconventional and most people ignore me completely, to the point where it’s nearly impossible to get served in a restaurant.”

“But this is just a flatshare, right?” I said. “I mean, there’s no reason why we’d be in a restaurant together.”

He looked at me.  His greyish blue eyes—in truth, it was hard to get a fix on exactly what colour they were, since it seemed to shift the longer you looked—were disarmingly piercing. “No. No reason. You’re right.” Yet I had the impression he’d sort of assumed that would be something that was happening.

Oh, God, had I offended him? I hadn’t meant to. Maybe he’d assumed … but no. That was stupid. We’d only just met. I didn’t want to offend him. He kept thumbs in the fridge, and Mike said he could be bit of a tough person to live with. What if he was a psychopath? Pissing him off was the last thing I wanted to do.

“So, do you, um, have a girlfriend?” I asked, quickly, as though the answer to that would tell me anything these days.

He eyed me dispassionately. “No.” Then, seeming to feel he needed to elaborate, added, “That isn’t exactly my area.”

I hazarded another guest. “A boyfriend?” That would explain the violin teacher who left his violin here on what appeared to be a permanent, or semi-permanent, basis. Sherlock hesitated. “Which is fine, by the way.”

“I know it’s fine,” he answered hurriedly. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend. And while your interest is flattering…”

“What?” I backtracked quickly: “I wasn’t—no, I mean, I just wanted you to know, it’s fine. It’s all fine.”

It was hard to tell, given how inhuman his expressions were, but I could swear Sherlock was amused. “If you say so. I must have you know, however, that my work prevents me from having relationships. Even if it did not, I am not sure you and I would be … compatible.”

Whatever he was saying, it wasn’t particularly flattering. “I wasn’t hitting on you,” I said firmly. “I’m sorry I gave you the impression that I might be.”

For the first time, Sherlock laughed, a short exhalation of air that sounded as though it had escaped without his permission. Certainly he looked pretty annoyed about it. “I’m expecting a visitor soon,” he said. “We ought to wrap this up quickly. Do you want the room or not?”

I’d have liked a little more time to consider, but as I glanced around the flat I was certain that I wasn’t going to get anything nicer. “I’ll stay. For a trial period,” I added, thinking of the thumbs, and Sherlock’s raised eyebrow told me he was surprised, but slightly impressed.

“Wise words, John Watson,” he said. “By the way, do you have any iron?”

“Iron?” I ran through the possibilities of the word in my head. _To iron. Ironing board. Iron in food—nutrition. He wants to know about my health? No. So clothes then. Wait. This is Sherlock Holmes. Metal._ He seemed amused by my confusion.

“Iron. Fe on the periodic table. The metal.”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“You might want to get some,” he said. “Just a suggestion.” As he turned to leave the kitchen, in which we were still awkwardly standing, he remembered: “Your room is upstairs. Don’t leave the windows open after midnight. It’s probably not safe.”

And just like that he walked into his own room, closed the door, and left me alone. 


End file.
